The Aurors' Missions
by gryffinclaw-witch
Summary: While Aurors Harry and Ron are participating in separate missions, tragedy strikes. (Slight AU. One-shot. Formatting errors from a previously-uploaded version have been REVISED!)


_**Author's Note:**_ I previously uploaded this story with some formatting errors. . . . Sorry about that! Here is the proper version of the story. Enjoy!

* * *

Harry started living alone at 12 Grimmauld Place four weeks after he killed Voldemort. Sirius left it to Harry in his will three years ago, but until the end of the war, it was occupied by the Order, who reasoned him too young to uphold a house on his own. Harry didn't mind waiting because he knew he would receive it eventually, and he knew that the Order was in greater need of it; they used it often for meetings, and it remained the safe and secret location that the Death Eaters were unaware of.

Even now, a year after acquiring Grimmauld Place, Harry still accepts visitors nearly every day. Sometimes they are former members of the Order, which disbanded a month after the war's end with the vague agreement that its members could re-form it if future circumstances justified it, but more often the people who popped in are his friends. Once, I have knocked on his door to see from across the corridor none other than McGonagall sitting at the wooden table in the kitchen. I was invited in by Harry and took a seat across from her, spontaneously joining what was already a friendly conversation, in which McGonagall and talked proudly about how Hogwarts was operating, and Harry in turn informed her of his life after the war, and I sat between them awkwardly drinking the tea I was given.

This time was no different.

"Hi," he says to me as he opens his door to the small staircase leading up to the house. I hug him around the shoulders and he catches my waist, and then we release each other.

I relinquish my jacket to him, because he's gesturing to take it from me. I watch as he places it for me on the stand by the door. It's lightweight, but I still wanted to bring it in case the temperature drops later this evening; it's difficult to say how long I will be visiting Harry tonight.

"Are you well?" I ask as he leads me into the kitchen and reaches into the cupboard for an extra cup.

"I am, yeah," he replies, and looks at me before nodding at the table. "Have a seat, if you'd like."

McGonagall is there. I'm almost surprised, but not quite; we exchange pleasantries and I select the chair positioned diagonally from hers, and a couple of minutes later Harry returns to us with a warm cup of tea for me. He sits beside me, directly across from our former professor.

"Hermione," says McGonagall, and I peer over the rim of the cup at my lips. This is one of the only times I have ever heard her call me by my first name. I suppose, because I'm no longer her student, our relationship has become less professional and more personal. "How are you, since you completed your education?"

I am one of very few of my classmates, and the sole Gryffindor female, who chose to return to Hogwarts after the war. Over the summer, I and Harry and Ron travelled there often, typically staying overnight in the unoccupied Gryffindor tower for a week at a time, to assist in reconstruction. Then, we would return to the Burrow for one or two more weeks, for the chance to relax and freely grieve our relatives and friends who have died. Hogwarts was almost not rebuilt in time for the next academic term, but on a day that we weren't there, it was deemed stable and secure enough, and in a big enough piece, to house the incoming students.

I wanted to be among them. Even though, right away, I was presented a job at the Ministry for Magic in practically any role I wanted, as long as it was one I qualified for, but I asked to postpone the offer until after my seventh year at school. The Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, agreed to defer my employment.

"Well," I mention, "I recently began work at the Ministry."

"Really?" she says, but I can't imagine she's surprised. Ron, Neville, and Harry are all Aurors there; in fact, Ron has been deployed on a mission for three months already. I miss him, but even he doesn't know how long we can expect him to be gone. Our relationship has lasted a year thus far and I'm very thankful for it. "What are you doing there?"

"I'm stationed in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures." I hope it doesn't sound as pompous to her as it does to me.

"You just graduated," McGonagall reminds me. Harry shifts in his chair, pulling it into the table more. "I'd have thought you would enjoy taking this time to rest, before joining the workforce."

"Forgive me, ma'am," said Harry, "but you do recall who this is? This is Hermione: the one of us who is physically incapable of not working?"

I smile at him when he turns sideways to look at me.

"Well, she began work _very_ recently," he clarifies, aiming the discussion straight again.

"I hardly know my way around the building yet," I admit.

"You'll get it soon, Hermione," reassures McGonagall, and her face is warm. I appreciate it. "You're a bright woman."

_Woman_. The word makes me feel old. Throughout my adolescence I hardly thought of myself as a girl, but I also never dared to describe myself as a woman. But I suppose that's what I am, now that I'm maintaining a happy relationship, now that I'm a graduate of Hogwarts, and now that I'm starting off a stable career.

But, thinking of it—and not wanting to say so aloud—Professor McGonagall is ageing, herself. The skin is hanging a little lower off her jaw and chin, and the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth are looking deeper. It was just a month ago, roughly, since I last saw her, but instead it appears to have been half a decade.

"Thank you," I tell her.

"So, on that," McGonagall goes on, "why did you choose that department?"

Harry glances at me as if he is expecting me to fully explain the concept and structure of S.P.E.W., which, in honesty, I've hardly thought about since the middle of our sixth year.

I sort of want to explain it, but I don't. "I feel as though it is undervalued within the Ministry."

There: it's less than the truth, but it's not a full lie.

McGonagall barely nods, but her approval makes me feel a little better.

"And," I continue, wanting to remove the attention from myself, "I once met Neville while working. He said that, in addition to his Auror work, he's training to teach Herbology, on the side. He said he was taking classes to become a professor."

"Yes, he is," says McGonagall appreciatively, like she is glad I haven't forgotten about Hogwarts already. "I've been approached by him several times, and as admirable an enthusiasm as he has, I honestly can't make an offer for the position until Pomona retires."

Harry stops drinking his tea for a moment. "Was she planning on it?" he asks.

McGonagall pauses like she's lost her breath and is trying to find it again. "Somewhat," she says, sort of softly. "She is very quiet about her thoughts on the matter. I don't think she is actively seeking retirement, but if something happened that would allow it—such as a new applicant to replace her—I believe that she would gladly accept the opportunity.

"She adores her work," elucidates McGonagall. "But Neville isn't prepared yet, either. He still needs to train for years before he can apply. However, his high scores on his Herbology N.E.W.T. certainly give him an advantage."

* * *

The next time I saw Harry was a couple of days later, but that time he visited me.

"Harry," I said. He almost never visits my flat. We both used to reside at the Burrow until the beginning of my and Ginny's seventh year; then I lived at Hogwarts and Harry moved himself to Sirius's old house.

"Hermione, I—" It is obviously hard for him to speak. In between sentences (or the fragments of sentences, rather), he breathes kind of heavily. For a fleeting second he glances down the left side of the corridor, and then helplessly looks back at me.

"Come in," I tell him, ushering him past me. Before I close the door I arch my neck around each side of the doorway, checking for danger, because Harry looks distressed; but I see nothing.

Harry is already in the kitchen, leaning with his elbows against the worktop. "Can I get you anything?"

He asks for water and I get it for him while he talks.

"I got a note from the Ministry," Harry says, and at once I'm fearing the most fearsome things. Did he lose his job? Did I? Has Ron been hurt?

"What's it of?" I ask. The end of my question gets higher in pitch, and that is beyond my control. I'm usually well-composed, but sometimes worry gets the better of me, especially after experiencing a war like that one.

"I'm getting deployed. . . ."

I want to be genuine in my response. "Good work!"

He finishes his glass of water already and stares at me. I stare back.

"You'll get experience," I say, like he doesn't get it. "The other Aurors will learn how well and diligently you work, and you'll earn their respect." As if the saviour of our society doesn't already _have_ the respect of every wizard and witch in Europe.

I'm re-filling his glass of water and hand it to him.

"Nev got the same letter. We're going on the same mission."

I don't want to express selfishness at a time like this, but I cannot keep myself from asking, "Is it Ron's mission?"

Right off of a large sip of water, Harry says, "No. It's unrelated to that." He looks at a number of places on the surface of the worktop. "He said he's going to have to pause in his Herbology stuff."

"You're worried about that?" I'm incredulous, but suddenly I feel like it was the incorrect thing to say, because it came out of my mouth sounding more offensive than I'd heard it first in my head. "He's young and he's got a long life ahead of him. He has tens of years to pursue a career in education, if that's what he wants. Trust me, Harry: if Neville didn't want to be an Auror, he wouldn't even be your colleague. He wants this . . . and so should you.

"I think you should tell the members of the Order, actually. They will be proud," I say, because something in his face lets me know that he isn't as eager to know it. I just can't think why.

"I know, Hermione." He sounds kind of exasperated, but I can't confirm if that's what he truly is because, at the same time, his words are becoming increasingly vague. "_I'm_ proud."

All this time, that hasn't seemed so. "Then, why are you . . . ?" I trail off because I can't conjure up the correct adjective to describe his current state.

"Have you heard from Ron?" he asks abruptly, not smiling, and my head tilts further upright.

I haven't. I haven't, and I wish I had.

"No." My lips feel drier, suddenly, and my mind feels heavy. My worry is more valid now, as reflected by him. "Not since a week after he left."

Harry looks grave.

"It's been three months, though. And that is what's troubling about this."

I don't want Harry to make me panic over something that isn't true. It's happened before, and I hate it. "We would have been told, if that happened. The Ministry would have sent you and me and the Weasleys a letter if something went wrong."

"Yeah," he admits, his eyes easing just barely, "but I still don't want that."

I wait for him to explain what he means, because I'm losing my energy and I don't feel like asking.

"I hate staying home and not ever hearing news of him. I haven't been told anything for a long time, and I don't know when I will next. I _hate_ that. And—when I'm doing the same things he's doing, I can't let Ginny . . . and you . . . go without any news of me. I mean, if you want that—but Ginny, definitely."

I understand. I don't want the only word I receive about him to be a letter that uncomfortably explains his death and leaves me with some pathetic attempt at condolence. Those letters are the worst; they are articulated delicately, in a way that tries to notify you of a loss without putting it outright or saying it straightforward.

"Of course, I would want to be one of the first to know something like that, Harry," I tell him, avoiding my own frustration as best as possible. "I think you'd be daft for thinking otherwise. But, it's also not the Ministry's fault for not bringing us news of him. It's Ron's." I feel like a bad girlfriend for pinning blame to Ron, but I have to lessen Harry's obsession with this. Over the course of some months I've adapted to not knowing anything of Ron's life. "I trust him. If Ron goes through something that he thinks we should be aware of, he'll tell us all about it.

"You and I, we'll hear from him eventually," I say, slowly coming off of whatever brought me high enough to argue. "Not soon, maybe. But, at some point."

Harry's gaze to me is extended and unreliable, with the underlying presence of a frown, as I notice in his voice:

"When I'm gone, Hermione, you're going to hear from me every day." His mouth gets tight around the corners. "Ginny, too. I'm going to write you every day because I think Ron's not doing the best thing by not writing you and me."

I won't agree that Ron is in the wrong, exactly, but I'm giving Harry the chance he's asking for. "That would be grand," I respond, smiling because he isn't, "but how about once a week instead?"

He still isn't grinning, but Harry looks a little calmer.

"I can do that," he promises.

* * *

The day Harry's set to depart is a Saturday, a day when I am not required to work, so Ginny and I follow him into the Auror Office at the Ministry to say goodbye. We go into his cubicle with quiet footsteps. I look at the clock above his desk; it is thirty minutes before he is scheduled to leave. Harry is sitting in his chair, reaching beneath his desk and within drawers in order to retrieve the final supplies he expects he'll need, which he packed away in his cubicle until today.

There are few windows on the walls of this office, but the few that exist have morning light coming through. When I walk through the beams, they rest over the top of my shoes and make my feet warmer.

"I—" Harry's voice hitches for a second when he picks up his trunk, which must be heavier than he previously realised. He puts it in front of him, almost between him and me, and tries again: "I think that's all."

"Is it?" From the pocket of my trousers—the same clean, tidy kind I wear to work—I remove a pencil. It was the sharpest one I could find earlier lying around my house. "Not quite."

He looks at it for a moment. I feel uneasy for a minute; this stupid pencil is sitting in my open palm and I wish he would just take it from me, because Ginny's looking between us as if she thinks one or the both of us is mad for treating a pencil this important.

"I already packed one, Hermione," but it's difficult to distinguish the emotion in his voice. "And some paper too."

I slip it in the pocket of his jacket. "Now you have another, in case that one breaks."

His grin is small, but present. We hug.

"Do you have everything else?" I say into his ear, right before we pull back. "Food, clothes, everything."

"I can't think I'm forgetting anything," says Harry, and then bursts into a whole smile. I've missed it; it complements him very well. "Don't you make me anxious about that now, Hermione."

"I just want to help!" I exclaim, but now I and Ginny are smiling too.

"Yeah; and once we're leaving, I'll probably realise _then_ that I've left something here or at home. Don't make that happen."

I apologise, but it is not really necessary. We're talking for about another quarter-hour, until it's five minutes before his departure time. He tells us that the Head Auror is very strict about punctuality, and therefore if he takes the risk of not arriving on time, then he is thereby taking the risk of not being permitted to go on the mission.

"Absurd," Ginny scoffs. "You're Harry Potter. They have to let you participate, no matter what."

"I'm afraid they won't," he says, but seems flattered. He hugs me again.

When we separate, he goes to Ginny, kisses her and tells her he loves her. She says she's going to miss him and he reciprocates that. Then, to our amusement, he arrogantly declines when Ginny offers to help him carry his trunk out.

We're watching him drag his luggage to the front of the office, and I'm praying that I won't miss him as much as I've missed Ron.

* * *

_Hermione:_

_The mission's not very far along yet, but it's really hot where we are. Summer is starting. Already what we've established is that our main objective is to find and remove Lucius Malfoy. Apparently the git is one of the last Death Eaters left, or at least one of the last people who identify as a Death Eater, and what he and the rest of them are doing at the moment is trying to continue Voldemort's work. They want us, the Aurors, to stop them._

_I'm not allowed to disclose too much information about it, but we suspect the way that the Death Eaters are still operating is because Malfoy is taking the strongest points that Voldemort had and he's using them to rebuild practically everything Voldemort worked for. I haven't heard much of Draco, but I know his mum is disapproving of what's going on, and I doubt Draco's actually going to be involved after the way he refused Voldemort's following at the Battle of Hogwarts. Both he and Narcissa betrayed Voldemort, but Lucius didn't, so that's why he's the real threat._

_Neville's fine, but we're not seeing as much of each other as I thought we would. We eat and sleep in the same places, since we're camping right now and we might be for a while, but during the day he and I are usually assigned to different areas. But he's doing well, as I've observed._

_I'm sending a letter to Ginny, too. It's got pretty much the same material as this one, except it's a little more sentimental. You wouldn't like it._

_Harry_

* * *

That was the first letter I received. It is a good sign; Harry is keeping his word. I get another, shorter one eight days later, but I won't write back to either because I don't know how the post is handled during an Auror mission. I don't know if my letter will be received, or when, or even where to address it to.

_Getting a little more difficult. The tasks are being redistributed. Good news: We have uncovered where Lucius is, and we're going there tomorrow. Have you heard from Ron yet? Harry._

The note is as obscure as a dark curtain. But at least I am getting regular updates.

* * *

_Hermione_

_Two weeks in and it's looking grim. We were ready to find Lucius, and he found us first. Yesterday. There was some damage, and some blood, but I'm okay. Neville's gone, though. Lucius got him on his own and took him without any help from the other Death Eaters._

Gone? What could "gone" possibly mean?—taken hostage, went missing, killed? My heart accelerates and I almost instinctually skip lower in the letter to find out, but I refrain; I want to read the letter in its entirety. To prevent myself from searching through the bottom of the message, I cover the entire end paragraphs and only slide my hands away when I come to them and have to read.

_We're all upset because it's a loss (one other Auror died), but by law and by the Head Auror's instructions we aren't allowed to abandon the mission unless it poses extreme risk to the mission's members, to the Ministry, or to the Wizarding or Muggle Worlds. We'll take a small number of days to recover and then regain details about Lucius and where he's heading next. That might require moving camp again._

_The investigations will continue, but in the meantime we're sending Neville's and the other Auror's bodies to the Ministry._

My heart freezes altogether now. Neville was dead. I can't visualise how it must have been for Harry to find out. Was he personally there, watching Neville get murdered? I feel nauseous and want to stop reading, but can't. Carefully, I move my eyes to the following sentences:

_We don't know much of the burial arrangements yet, but the funerals will be organised in part by Kingsley, and probably be held simultaneously. They will be arranged for some time after this mission ends, because all of us Aurors on the mission want to attend the funerals. I hope you come too, and the others. And hopefully Ron, if he's back by then._

_Here's wishing all's well at home._

_Harry_

* * *

They finished the mission to the best of their ability, which was admittedly not very much. The mission wasn't regarded as a failure, but the Aurors were also unable to fulfil it in its completion. When Harry returned to Grimmauld Place after four more weeks of being deployed (and only two more letters), I waited until Ginny had visited him first before I went the following day. I figured that he would want to talk to his girlfriend before talking to me.

He was home alone; as luck would have it, nobody else paid him a visit on the day I went. If Harry hadn't told Ginny the news, the Weasleys might not even be aware; Ron isn't home yet.

When I knock on Harry's door, the sound resonates in the most awful way, like the street is even emptier, or the interior of the house on the other side of the wall is hollow.

I'm thinking as I wait for Harry to approach the door. I actually already saw him, which was a relieving but unpleasant experience, because we spent the reunion at the combined funeral. As a matter of cruel fact, we only spoke once, him and me, during the entire day. And we embraced each other, but it was half-hearted, and I don't think it meant anything.

The funerals featured speakers like the Minister for Magic; some of our old classmates, like Luna; and Harry. Ginny said that I should go up and say something, and I wanted to but I was afraid I would start crying halfway through any improvised speech I could find the nerve to present. Ginny went up instead.

The other Auror who died was a wizard who was a couple of years older than Harry and I. I learned his name at the start of the funeral and remembered it until about twenty minutes past the end. I wish I remembered it.

But that was half a week ago, and I haven't seen Harry since.

I don't notice I was staring into the garden lining the path to Harry's door until I raise my head from it, to him, once he's looking at me.

"I was rereading your letters last night," I said, because I was. I stayed awake two hours later than I normally did, because I couldn't stop reading them.

That looked like the wrong thing to say. "I was writing a letter last night," said Harry softly.

"Were you?"

"I was. To Neville's family. Even though I saw them at the funeral and the Ministry already sent them a letter, I wanted to write out my sympathy."

"Have they gotten it yet?" I inquire.

Harry has barely made eye contact beyond the initial moment he opened the door, and now it seems that his shoes are more fascinating than my face is. "Dunno," he said, "but I sent it this morning." Finally, again, he looks at me. Then he steps sideways, and I can see beyond him into the corridor that leads down to the kitchen. "Come in?"

* * *

I'm still working at the Ministry, but not in the way I was. A month ago I was promoted to a new, higher position and transferred to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It was a job I was striving for since slightly before I started work in my former department, but I feel like I appreciate it less than I expected I would, because everything in the Ministry has become morose since the deaths of two Aurors.

A month before that, Ron returned. That very night, the first thing he did was come to my flat. I welcomed him in, offered to give him food and to let him use my shower, and then told him about everything important. I started with the fact that I had begun Ministry work in the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures department, and his immediate response to that was something vaguely resembling: "You and that crummy affection you have toward those house-elves."

I let the Ministry conversation lead itself into the Auror mission. The transition between subjects was smoother than Ron's reaction to the news of Neville's death.

"That could have been Harry," he said in astonishment. "Blimey, 'Mione, that could've been _me_."

"I know," was all I could have said.

"Did I miss the funeral? Did it happen yet? I missed it; I'm sorry."

"It's okay," I told Ron that night. "There was no way you could have made it."

It felt terrible to ruin his first evening home with a series of bad news.

"I think I've been away for too long," Ron admitted. "I'm sorry," he added promptly.

"I know," I said again.


End file.
